


Slow Ride

by veni



Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: M/M, Sentimental, needy Numbers, possessive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 10:20:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1775581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veni/pseuds/veni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fed up with the cold, Numbers and Wrench decide to spend the night at an actual hotel with a functional heater. Things get hotter than intended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slow Ride

**Author's Note:**

> As per request, needy Numbers + possessiveness
> 
> Comments are my fucking lifeblood, sustain me please

The cold did not agree with Mr. Numbers. He made every effort to keep warm—thick beard, thicker coat, double layer of socks like he was a fucking twelve-year-old waiting to catch the bus in zero-degree weather—but in the end it did not matter. Numbers was cold. And when Numbers got cold, Numbers complained.

 

Frankly, Wrench was sick of it.

 

When Numbers started up on the same old _can you believe how goddamn cold Duluth is_ conversation, gloved hands signing with breakneck speed and a scowl darkening his face, Wrench cut in without hesitation.

 

_We have enough cash on us_ , he signed. _Let’s stay at a hotel with heat tonight_.

 

_God yes_.

 

They had trouble finding an _actual_ hotel; the best they could manage was a half-decent motel owned by a terribly obnoxious woman with what Number’ called _severe hair_. She gave them a funny look, but she accepted their cash without qualm, directing them to an ugly little room with two rickety beds and the loudest heater Numbers had ever heard.

 

It was heaven.

 

Numbers cranked up the heat with a delirious, half-mad sort of grin. The unit kicked to life, loud enough that even Wrench could feel its vibrations.

 

_I had almost forgotten what it felt like to be warm_ , Numbers signed. He peeled off his gloves and tossed his scarf on the ground. Wrench rolled his eyes. He plopped down on a bed and kicked off his boots, laying back to stare at the cracks in the ceiling. From his peripheral he could see Numbers shuffling around, until he finally came to a standstill and, mirroring his partner, fell ungraciously onto the bed to Wrench’s left.

 

Wrench turned his head. He stared. Numbers was stretched out on the bed, clad in his boxers and—Wrench swallowed—nothing else. He smirked at Wrench. _Want to fuck me?_

 

Wrench did want to fuck him, as a matter of fact. Wrench frequently wanted to fuck Numbers, and he did, but on the job—well, it was complicated. They didn’t make a habit of fooling around while they worked; they were professionals, after all. Sometimes they couldn’t help it, and they’d find themselves fucking against the back-alley wall of some dive bar, Wrench balls-deep in Numbers while streetlights flickered above and some poor schmuck was bleeding out in the trunk of their car, Numbers biting his knuckles raw to keep quiet, pants pooled around his ankles.

 

Between jobs, they took it slow. Sometimes they even used a bed.

 

This sort of opportunity was, in short, irregular, and Wrench was not going to let it pass. It took an impressively short amount of time for him to shuck off his clothes and make it to Numbers’ bed, and with a deft hand he pulled off the only item of clothing that separated the two of them from a complete and total touch of skin-on-skin: Mr. Numbers’ stupidly expensive boxers. They slid off easily, black silk sliding down pale legs to be tossed unceremoniously on the floor, landing atop Mr. Wrench’s own pair of off-brand, plain blue boxers.

 

Numbers’ Adam’s apple bobbed. Wrench watched him swallow, a high flush rising on his neck. _I put lube on the nightstand_ , Numbers signed, _get to it already_.

 

_You’re too impatient._

_You’re too slow._

_You’re too needy._

_Just fuck me already._

 

Wrench leaned back on his heels. He surveyed the scene before him with a focused eye, and under his scrutiny Number’s reddened. _What?_

 

_You’re beautiful._

 

Numbers squirmed, averting his eye. _Don’t say shit like that, man._

 

He had never been comfortable with overt affection, as Wrench knew well. It was a frequent point of contention for them. Wrench had always been a hands-on guy; slipping an arm around his partner’s waist or laying a hand on his thigh was eminently natural to him, but at any sort of soft touch or gentle affection Numbers’ went rigid, hissing like a cat if they were in public and mouthing off about _boundaries_ like Wrench had tried to fellate him in chapel.

 

But Numbers loved to fuck. Wrench loved it too, of course, but he’d like more of the soft stuff that Numbers’ dismissed out of hand—kissing, touching, even cuddling (god help him). He wanted all of Numbers in his entirety, not just a quick fuck.

 

Wrench had a hard time putting it into words.

 

_We’re taking it slow_ , Wrench finally decided. _Or I’m not fucking you at all._

 

Numbers bunched his face up in a look of exasperated annoyance that Wrench found absurdly endearing. _Fine_ , he grumbled, _but I swear to god you better fuck me like you mean it_.

 

In answer, Wrench bent forward, one hand twisted in the thick dark hair on Numbers’ head, the other cradling the side of his face, and he kissed him. It was feather-soft and achingly slow, but with a focused energy that bespoke a buried intensity, a calm before a storm that would leave anyone caught in it drenched to the bone and gasping for breath. When Wrench pulled back Numbers was panting.

 

Numbers looked up at him, slack-jawed. When he signed his hands were shaking. _Okay, we can do more of that_. He pulled Wrench down beside him and placed a hand on the wide expanse of Wrench’s chest, pressing their lips together. His beard scratched against Wrench’s face as he deepened the kiss, and Wrench could feel him hard against his thigh. There was a warm intimacy to his touch that hit Wrench low in his belly, and he was struck with the thought that he had never felt so in-tune to another person in the entirety of his life.

 

He grasped Numbers with a renewed fervor, his hands seizing hips and hair, mouthing at him with half-desperate violence. Numbers groaned into his mouth with a shudder. Wrench bit at the juncture of his neck and felt the shudder evolve into a full-body tremor. Numbers had always orbited on the edge of violence, and he welcomed it into the bedroom as easily as he did on the streets. He liked to fight, in every sense of the word.

 

Wrench raked a hand through the coarse hair on Numbers’ chest, trailing thin red lines over pale skin already mottled with ink, black and red blooming up, competing for land. Numbers was babbling; Wrench didn’t know what, but he could feel the vibrations in Number’s throat. From the way Numbers’ leg was twisted around Wrench, pulling him in like a vice, Wrench assumed his attentions were going over well.

 

Wrench felt a hand beating on his back. He pulled away immediately, and Numbers grabbed him by the shoulders to still him. _No, this is phenomenal, seriously_ , Numbers signed rapidly. _But I just really, really need you to fuck me right now or I’m going to explode_. He looked absolutely wrecked—flushed and panting and swollen-lipped, his cock throbbing hot between his legs. He was positively pornographic.

 

Wrench needed to fuck him. The need was so all-consuming that Wrench nearly fell off the bed in his haste to grab the lube on the nightstand. He slicked up his cock while Numbers watched him with an intensity that was nothing short of obscene. Sufficiently prepared, he leaned over Numbers, looming over him in a way that he knew Numbers found unfairly arousing. Numbers started to roll over, but Wrench grasped his hip, stilling him. _Face to face_ , he signed.

 

_Aren’t you a fucking romantic._

 

_Just for you._

 

“God,” Numbers moaned. He buried his face in his hands and mumbled something that Wrench could not distinguish. Wrench swatted his hands away. _What did you say?_

 

_I love you_ , Numbers signed. He was practically huffing. _I fucking love you, you big stupid idiot_.

 

Wrench smiled. _I love you too_.

 

_You’re killing me here_.

 

Wrench snorted. He moved Numbers’ legs, bending them back toward his chest with practiced ease. Numbers had his arms looped around Wrench’s neck, and when Numbers gave him a nod, Wrench took himself in hand and pressed forward.

 

He buried himself in Numbers to the hilt. He was on top of the man, covering him bodily, and in the heat of the room their sweat and their breath mingled in the dark, the glow of a bedside lamp casting them both in a soft light. Their foreheads touched.

 

Numbers hooked a leg around him, pulling him forward, and Wrench took his cue. He fucked Numbers carefully at first, rocking in and out of him in an agonizing rhythm that left Numbers half-mad with frustration. _Harder_ , he mouthed, but Wrench silenced him with a kiss. Numbers bit him hard on the lip and Wrench almost laughed; he was such a fucking instigator.

 

But he could never really refuse Numbers.

 

His thrusts deepened, growing more erratic, more violent, until he was fucking Numbers with the sort of base ferocity that would leave the man bruised and limping and, Wrench knew, smugly pleased with himself. He fisted a hand around Numbers’ cock and began stroking it roughly, and when Numbers bit him on the clavicle Wrench dug his fingers into Numbers’ hip so hard he drew blood.

 

He felt Numbers clench around him, his cock pulsing like a living thing in Wrench’s hand and his mouth fixed on Wrench’s skin like a leech. In a moment he was undone. Wrench came with his face buried into Numbers’ preposterous hair, breaking his customary silence with a choked moan.

 

They stayed like that, entwined, inseparable. Wrench could feel Numbers’ release hot on his belly, his cock finally softening. He breathed hard. Beneath him, Numbers was grinning.

 

_You’re a rockstar_ , Numbers signed. His eyes were closed, and his hair was sticking to his forehead. Wrench brushed a few strands away and Numbers’ cracked his eyes open, peering up at him fondly. Wrench pulled out, flopping down beside him, and with one quick move he wrapped an arm around Numbers’ waist and pulled him back, so that he was spooned up behind him. His chest was hot on Numbers’ back, and when he felt Numbers’ twine their fingers together, he smiled into the crook of his shoulder.


End file.
